TRANSISTOR: Stars Beyond the Blade
by Thyemis
Summary: Red and the man she loves are trapped in the Country. Royce Bracket and the rest of the Camerata are there, and they are obsessed with returning to Cloudbank by any means necessary-even if it means destroying Red. Red and the man soon find themselves fighting for their lives in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

Red and the man she loved sat in the kitchen of their worst enemy. They were trapped, but not by walls—not strictly speaking.

"Let me make this clear to you," said Royce Bracket quietly. "Something you can understand."

Red stared at him across the table, glowering. The kitchen was shadowy, cool, and small, but light filtered in from the crack under the door—light from the Country. Or the afterlife. Maybe. Red still hadn't figured it out.

"You've done the most heavy lifting," Royce said. "With the Transistor, I mean. Therefore, it seems only— _logical_ —that you should be the one to do it. Very logical indeed. You'll cut a hole in this place. And go back."

The Transistor sword was a weapon with remarkable powers, including soul absorption. Right now, using it to return to reality didn't seem at all implausible, especially when said by the man who built it. But that didn't mean Red liked it.

Red dug her nails into her palm so hard they almost broke the flesh. She spat out the words. "Return to Cloudbank? That's _insane_."

She wished she could go back in time—just five minutes—and stop Royce from roping her into this conversation in the first place. Hatred seethed and rose; her blue gaze hardened, but Royce Bracket looked nonplussed. Red wanted to throttle him.

"Making this work—well, it won't be easy," said Royce softly. "Won't be easy, and _I_ have to do all the math involved. Awful lot of it."

The man behind Red breathed through his nose like an angry bull. All his self-control was concentrated on not launching himself across the table and punching Royce, as he had done their first night in the Country.

"No way," Red said coldly. "Going back—you think I have another death wish? The Process—"

"They play by their own rules now," said Royce.

The Process was a variety of supernatural creatures and beasts that Royce and his accomplices—a cunning, four-member group called the Camerata—had unleashed upon the city of Cloudbank in order to make it 'better'. The Camerata had lost the only thing capable of controlling them, the Transistor sword, and the Process had run amok like out-of-control tornados, destroying most of the city in mere hours. Going back would be nothing short of insane.

Royce Bracket smirked, softly, keeping eye contact with her, and then sneered slightly, as if Red were a tiny slug and he a god. Red gritted her teeth.

"You seem to be _forgetting_ something," he said. His voice was quiet, calm, almost detached, as if he was thinking of other more important things. But Red knew better than that.

Behind her, the man glowered and made to step forward, but Red straightened up an inch. Reluctantly, he stayed put.

"Maybe spending these days with your love bird here has made your memory a bit— _dim_ , on certain matters, shall we say," Royce said, the smirk still curling the corners of his mouth as he looked at her with large, poisonous-green eyes. "I told you, didn't I? Just a while ago—before we had our little battle, before you came here. The Transistor plus its cradle means no more Process. It controls them. They are _gone_ from Cloudbank. Gone from Highrise. Gone from Fairview. Vanquished. Pulled back in. Eradicated."

He settled back in his chair.

Red bit the inside of her cheek. A stupid folly to make—but also reasonable, she thought defensively. She vividly remembered Cloudbank and its surrounding areas as she had last seen them: overrun by the Process. Could she be blamed for that? But they _had_ been reined back in, it was true. Replacing the sword in its "cradle" had done the trick: put it back in and the Process disappeared.

But something had gone wrong, jus then; she and Royce had ended up somewhere very different and very strange the moment the sword had been replaced. Inside a massive Transistor or half-way to the Country—she still hadn't made up her mind quite _what_ that place had been—they'd dueled to determine who had the right to leave and go back to reality.

Considering how exhausting winning had been, Red thought she could be forgiven for remembering the city the way it had been most vivid to her. What was wrong with that?

Red shook her head, short but bright hair trembling like flames in the kitchen's dimness. She wanted this conversation to end, and soon. "No more Process. Okay. But so what? Why do you think I would ever want to go back?"

The man behind her placed his large, warm hand on her shoulder. "I don't need to go back," she said, settling back in her chair, eyes flashing. There was nothing left for her in that Processed city now. In fact, many people believed she had died. "Besides, what makes you think I would follow the advice of someone who _tried to kill me_?"

Royce's green eyes burned in his face and his lips were a thin, tight, angry line.

Red wasn't going to lie to herself: seeing him like that gave her a tiny, blooming satisfaction. Royce and the rest of the Camerata had ruined her life and that of her beloved, effectively destroyed Cloudbank with their inability to control the Process—which had resulted in the deaths of hundreds of citizens and a mass evacuation of thousands more.

"'Think I'll go where it suits me'," Red said, arms folded. It was a line from one of her old songs; she flashed Royce a quick, cold grin. "Right now, that place doesn't include Cloudbank."

"You—," said Royce, seething, "you _enjoy_ seeing me like this, don't you, Red? Oh, don't lie. I know it. I know you do."

He looked at her and smiled, eyes icy and unfeeling, blanketing his rage for now.

"I am going to be frank with you. I've gotten quite tired of being here, of _being_ in the Country. Just _being—_ it's not even living. Not even living. I am going to be perfectly honest with you. I never thought it would happen. Getting bored. Getting bored _here_ , of all places." He steepled his fingers and looked at her over them. "Never, ever thought it would happen. But, ah, it did. I'm a _smart_ man, and this place is _not good_ , for someone like me. Not good at all. I _need_ to go back to Cloudbank. So there you go."

He leaned forward, looking Red in the eye, and his gaze was hungry.

"You are my way out. As I said, you've used the Transistor the longest. Have the most _skill_." He didn't look pleased about that. "Once I build a new one, you can _cut_ your way back into the real world for me. Back into Cloudbank. Admittedly, I _lied_ , before, Red—just a bit. You won't be going back. _I will_."

Horror rose in Red before she could stop it, like an outburst of Badcells. She gaped at him. A _new_ Transistor? Was that possible? Could one even be made here in the Country? But that couldn't be true—

At Royce's words, the man behind Red strode forward with footfalls like thunder, slamming his hands on the table and bending into the ring of light. Royce's gaze snapped up to meet his, and the man spoke: low, dangerous, and intense.

"No WAY am I going back in that _thing_."

Realization flooded through Red in three terrible flashes: Me to wield it, she thought, Royce to create it, and—and him to be inside it, his soul to fuel it. Just like last time.

She started to tremble.

The man released a forceful breath, glaring at Royce with eyes as sharp as the blade in which he had once been imprisoned. Keeping eye contact, He straightened up to his considerable height and crossed his arms.

"Do you get it, or do I need to repeat myself?" he growled. " _Not. Going._ "

Striding to the kitchen door, He wrenched it open and blinding Country daylight exploded, illuminating the small room. Red moved quickly to follow him.

Royce Bracket looked livid.

Red and the man stood on the small porch, the little gray overhang covering them in shade. She rested her head on his shoulder, more glad than she could say to be away from Royce.

The sky was a perfect, brilliant blue, and before them stretched endless fields of bright gold: the Country. The afterlife, some might call it. Its sun had a barely-visible red ring around it, almost like an afterimage, shimmering in and out of sight with every second.

"Royce Bracket—" The man shook his head.

"Let's try to forget about it," Red said quietly, although goosebumps were still on her arms, Royce's voice fresh in her mind. She wished the conversation had never happened. A new Transistor couldn't be possible, could it?

"Let's say he somehow returned to Cloudbank," He said quietly. "I can't see whatever he does there being good. Not with a mind like his."

An image of Cloudbank as Red had last seen it burst into her mind: towering blocks of deathly white that used to be buildings, streets, shrubs, and trees— _and people_.

"The Country doesn't suit Royce Bracket," she admitted. "He was right about that. He's desperate."

Through the crack under the front door Royce's chair scraped as he got up, and his footsteps receded into the house's living room where they were muffled by carpet. The red wooden house was the only building in the Country, as far as Red knew.

Too bad its occupants hated each other.

Overall, though, while the Country was definitely strange, it could be peaceful and comforting. Red finally had Him back with her, and only someone like Royce Bracket would want to return to an empty Cloudbank.

He and Red sank down, leaning against the door and stretching their legs out into the gentle sunlight. A breeze rustled the fields of gold.

"I—," he whispered at last, staring at his lap. "What he said—I'll never—that _thing_ —"

She squeezed his hand as he shut his eyes tightly for a moment. Shaggy dark hair obscured most of his face and his mouth formed a rigid grimace. His entire body had tensed.

Red got to her knees, wrapped her arms around him, and hugged Him as hard as she could. He buried his head in her shoulder, trembling and slowly returning the embrace. Being inside the Transistor was a kind of hell Red could never imagine.

"I won't let it happ—," she began, but then came footsteps through the fields of wheat.

They looked up. Standing there were the two other Camerata members, Grant and Asher Kendrell.

The man scowled, dark eyebrows drawing together. "You're still here? I was hoping you two were figments of my imagination," he growled, as Red slipped off him.

Asher Kendrell smirked and shook his head, dark skin and white suit standing out against the golden backdrop. The Camerata crest on his sleeve was a like a splatter of blood and tar. "After four days I would have thought you'd _grasped_ the concept of the Country, what it means to be here. Escape is impossible. Haven't you gotten it yet?"

The Kendrells were here because they had killed themselves rather than be overcome by the Process. It had been downright cowardly—they hadn't had enough grit or courage to stick it through and bother fixing their own mistake. Red scowled up at them.

"No walls," said Grant Kendrell, a huge, tall man with silver-white hair. He wore a flowing and stylish red jacket, embroidered with the Camerata symbol where the lapels would be. He had slit his own throat, Red remembered, and Asher had drunk poison. "No walls in this place, whatever it is, but impossible to get out of all the same."

Frustration laced Grant's voice, though he tried his best to hide it. A light sheen of sweat covered his brow: they had been wandering in the wheat fields, as Red had seen them obsessively explore since her arrival.

"Forth time's the charm, is that it?" asked the man beside Red, coolly, getting to his feet. He raised an eyebrow. "I would've thought you'd have grasped the concept of the Country by now."

Grant took a step forward, looking angry, but Asher flung out a thin arm to stop him. Face expressionless, he began walking past Red and the man into the cool house. Gaze lingering on Red's, he sneered slightly.

"Trying to read us?" he said as Grant followed him into the house. "It's not going to work. You should know better."

They closed the door with a snap, footsteps scraping over the wood floor as they moved through the kitchen and headed in the direction of the living room.

The man stared at the door for a moment, then slammed his fist against the wall. "Jerks."

"What are they doing out there in those fields?" Red said, gazing out at the shimmering horizon and shuddering.

He shrugged, still looking ill-tempered. "How unfair is it there's only one house here? I'd be happy with just another building—anything to get away. You and I could live in Junction Jam's, couldn't we?"

As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. He grinned for a second. "What I wouldn't give for their Sea Monster flatbread right now."

Red nodded in agreement and longing. The simplest phrases reminded her of the oddness of the Country, just when she thought she'd been getting used to it. Now that he'd mentioned it, she realized she _did_ miss the taste of their favorite flatbread.

Here in the Country, in four entire days, none of them had felt hungry, and yet the need to sleep still persisted. Calling this place 'strange' could be an understatement.

The sun was a little lower in the sky now. They both agreed they didn't feel like going inside just yet, so they strolled in the endless golden fields, hands intertwined.

If we can just walk far enough away, Red found herself thinking, almost desperately, as the strands of wheat brushed against her arms, maybe we can outrun the house—and the people inside it.

No matter how far they walked the house remained in the background. Always there, like it was watching. Red squeezed His hand tight.

He didn't say much. When he had been trapped in the Transistor he hadn't said much either—compared to now, at least. Of the four nights here so far, they had talked at length before going to sleep. But being silent was something Red understood only too well, and if he wanted to walk in silence she wasn't going to stop him.

As they continued the yellow sun began to sink, while a large red afterimage remained hanging high: ghost of the noonday sun. A cool breeze brushed across the fields, ruffling her dress and his big black jacket.

"It's not possible, is it? A _new_ Transistor?"

The words came tumbling from her before she knew what she was saying.

He immediately tensed and looked away, stopped walking.

"Sorry," she said, horrified. "I really didn't mean—"

"It's okay, Red." He sighed and stayed quiet, but didn't continue walking. Red didn't know what to do with herself.

"Let's go back," she said at last.

To get to the quieter upper floor He and Red had no choice but to go through the living room. Asher and Grant Kendrell were there, lounging on the sofa nearest the window. Royce Brackett had his palms spread upon a small round table, facing them both. It was covered with papers.

"I _suppose_ you have a point," he said to Asher, looking sour. "Either way it'll be difficult, very difficult. But if we can substitute that for—"

They all looked up when Red and the man entered. Royce's gaze settled upon them, hard as glass.

Red's legs told the rest of her to move, quickly, but her body would not listen. Royce's gaze penetrated her: it was like being glared at by a creature of the Process—a Clucker, or a Man, or a Fetch, waiting to pounce and then to kill. Hair rose on her arms and the back of her neck as a familiar feeling took shape inside of her, one she had felt every second while fighting to survive back in Cloudbank: that of being hunted.

Red glanced at the room's other door, at the far end. Up the stairs were bedrooms, doors they could lock. She shared a look with the man at her side and they started to walk across the living room.

Their footsteps were muffled by the carpet. Red's dress rustled and the door didn't seem to be getting any closer. _Just walk._ She dug her nails into her palm, focusing on looking straight ahead. At her side, He was still and quiet.

The Camerata's gazes drilled into them.

Red's eyes flicked towards the table before she could stop herself. It was spread with scientific diagrams, drawings, and mathematical formulae— _lots_ of mathematical formulae, written in a thin hand and crammed together on the page.

If she could just get a closer look—no, she had to _focus_ , get to the door—

Just as she was about to turn away and pretend she hadn't been, Royce, Asher and Grant saw her looking. She almost stopped, heart in her mouth.

Royce's look had venom in it. "Now, Red—nobody likes a sneak." Pale, spidery hands flitted forward to cover up some of the larger documents and blueprints, but not before she had seen—

"Like you aren't one," He snapped. "Leave Red alone."

"I _can't_ , really, can I?" Royce said quietly. "We're in the only house out here, after all. The only house. Nowhere else to _go_."

The man stepped forward, eyebrows drawing together, hand curling into a fist. "What are you saying?"

Royce gave the smallest of shrugs, straightening and covering the blueprints. "Oh, nothing, really. Just that, well, returning to Cloudbank—it would be one way to _alleviate_ the boredom, now, wouldn't it?"

He looked as if he would hit Royce. Behind them, Asher and Grant jumped to their feet.

"Let me—put it this way," Royce said testily, to both of them. "There are many things you don't _know_ about the Country. Things that you don't _notice_. Is it really called the Country? Well, nobody knows the answer to that, do they. People gave it a name just to humanize it, to fool themselves. Fool themselves into thinking they knew something about what they really _don't_."

His piercing eyes flashed in Red's direction, and stayed. "I would've thought you had noticed it, during our fight. Our little _skirmish_ , back then. Where we were. What it meant. What being here, in this place, means."

Red's pulse thrummed. He's giving me a hint, she thought desperately. What's he trying to tell me?

"Now, go away." Royce shooed them with pale fingers as if he couldn't bother doing anything more. "Take your business somewhere else. And your love bird, too. There are—bedrooms—other rooms—outside. Leave. I have plans."

He bent over the papers again but didn't uncover them yet. The man scowled and cracked his knuckles, moving towards the door only when Red brushed past him with a meaningful look. This was a fight of knowledge, that, right now, they could not win. They reached the door and the Kendrells threw themselves back onto the sofa, looking distastefully after them.

Red jogged up the stairs with Him close behind.

He glowered out the bedroom's only window, which had a view of the back of the house. It wasn't much different than the front: more golden fields. The sky gleamed a dark sea-green, the sun's red afterimage hovering in place of a moon.

"If you'd have told me when I was alive, I never would've thought I'd end up hating the Country," he said. "It's _them_ , really. Ruin it."

Red perched on the edge of the bed. She felt like the Camerata's gazes were still on her. "We're not the only ones to have died from the result of this Process-and-Camerata _mess._ How come there's no one else here?"

He shrugged. "No idea."

Maybe there were many Countries, all with a few deceased residents each, stacked upon each other like the world's tallest pile of pancakes. All existing at the same time. Maybe? Red fell back onto the white-quilted bed and stared at the ceiling. She'd never been good at that kind of scientific or philosophical thinking, instead letting her song lyrics do it for her.

What had Royce meant? That there were things she didn't know about the Country, things she didn't notice—like what?

She thought back to the moment when she'd placed the Transistor back in its cradle, drawing the Process back in. That had worked, at least, but she and Royce had been taken to some kind of eerie in-between because of it. It had looked similar to here, the Country, but the landscape had been littered with hundreds of blue-and-gold Transistors swords, some the normal five feet tall, others as big as Cloudbank's skyscrapers.

Was he trying to tell her that they were all there? The in-between, instead of the Country? But that didn't make sense. She'd won the fight, left Royce there, and got out. She'd joined her man in the Country—then, somehow, Royce had been there, too. But the Country was different: it had no Transistors littered about, big or small. The two places couldn't be the same.

But there was no way two of Royce could exist.

It just didn't make any sense.

Springs squeaked softly as He lay next to her on the bed. She looked at him and traced the edge of his face; he smiled.

"We'll find somewhere," he said. "Somewhere without them."

"And when we do, you're _staying_. In your own body. You won't be in any Transistor—I'll make sure of it."

"That's my star." They kissed. "You always could handle yourself."

They woke before the real sun had risen.

Leaving the grey, deathly-silence house at such hours caused Red to wonder, briefly, whether Royce, Asher, and Grant were light or heavy sleepers. Her mind almost contorted itself trying to imagine someone like Royce sleeping before realizing she didn't really care. Not about the people who'd caused so much havoc by creating, and losing control of, that _sword_.

On the way out Red glanced into the shadowy living room. The blueprints, scientific diagrams, drawings, and piles of math papers had all been put away somewhere.

Something sparked in her memory from the evening before. She turned to Him as he shrugged on his large black coat, gold buttons glimmering dully in the grey, inside-morning light.

"Last night," she whispered. "I _did_ see something on those papers, right before Royce covered them up."

He raised an eyebrow and opened the door. "Oh?"

They slipped out, shutting the door behind them. The Country was covered in morning mist. While the proper yellow sun had yet to rise, its red afterimage hung there like an eye or a perfect, round bottle stain.

Leaving the house without breakfast still made Red feel as if she were doing something wrong. While their stomachs would rumble occasionally, and while the house did have a refrigerator, none of them—including the three Camerata members—ever felt the urge to eat, not even once. Unless Royce had a secret stash of apples they didn't know about.

"I saw," Red said as they set off, "a name. It was Rainhue."

"Rainhue?" He scratched the side of his face, taking long, high strides through the wheat. "Huh. I've never heard of it before."

He was practically an expert on the geography of Cloudbank; he knew all the street names and intersections and how to get almost anywhere in the sprawling city from another point. If he had never heard of the place called Rainhue, it could only mean bad news. As for Red, she'd lived in the area of the city called Highrise. Not once had she heard of any side streets, elevators, or even colossal sets of stairs leading down to Cloudbank's lower levels named Rainhue. She wracked her mind. None of her few friends, fans and admirers, or even family had anyone by that name.

What a strange name it was, too—Rainhue. Like flowers being pulled out of sight on a current. Melancholy.

After they had been walking for some time, the sun rose and blanketed the land in its light. The dew dripping on the wheat and occasional spider webs melted away.

They would have stopped for lunch but didn't need to, not here. As they walked they held hands and talked about the past—before He had gotten killed and the Transistor had trapped his soul inside of it, before the Camerata had unleashed the beasts and creatures of the Process upon the city. They talked of when life had been normal. Song writing, tea and lyrical strategy, concerts and applause, cool breezes and off days. Kisses, market fairs, political discussions over flatbread while it rained, his warm jacket over her shoulders when she was feeling down. Her hand and his.

"Hey, look."

He pointed. There were soft brown hills in the distance, and strewn along their bottom were dozens of tiny black dots.

"Are those—houses?" She shaded her eyes with a hand. "No, wait. People?"

They exchanged a glance.

"Or Rainhue?" he asked.

By the time they had reached the beginning of what could be estimated as half-way there, Red found herself incredibly grateful for all the walking she had done in Cloudbank. Aside from battling ambushes of the Process at almost every other intersection she had traversed a vast portion of the city. Her legs and feet had gotten tough and strong (not to mention her arms, from hauling the Transistor sword around. He'd been very concerned about that, which had made her smile and made it a little easier.)

Existing as a flickering soul and being stuck in a sword hadn't done anything for his fitness, though. She would even guess that it had worsened it, although she didn't think it would please him if she said that out loud. Although He was by no means flabby, by the time they were almost to the brown hills and the black objects looked vaguely recognizable he'd taken off his jacket and tied it around his waist, exposing sweat stains on his shirt.

"I think I need a breather," he panted, looking slightly embarrassed. The sun was at its zenith.

They sat down right there among the wheat, which now enclosed them like golden gates and rustled above their heads. He took off his shoes and rubbed his feet.

"I can't believe this. Sorry, Red." He grinned, shaking his head. "Ridiculous."

She laughed, and his tired face lit up at the sound of it. "Hey, it's okay. I wasn't all fighting fury back then, I got tired too."

"And hungry."

"Hey, that Junction Jam's flatbread saved my life. Probably would've given the Camerata the Transistor earlier if they'd offered me food."

He snorted, and then chuckled. "Yeah, right."

She grasped his wrist to let him know she'd been joking, just in case some part of him took it the wrong way. She felt terrible for saying it already. "I'm really sorry—I shouldn't have—Not with you in there. I'm sorry. No way."

He looked her in the eye. "I know."

They leaned in and kissed; for a moment everything was perfect. He settled back and gazed at the sky, Red resting her head on his chest. A breeze ruffled their hair and clothes, refreshing and soft, and the wheat around them brushed together in whispers.

Their hike hadn't started out with any particular purpose, so they lay there for a while, lost in thoughts of the past.

Something tugged at Red—something inside of her, something strong. It was pulling her back the way they had come.

She got to her knees, looking over the endless waving wheat. A miniscule red dot seemed to flash at the farthest point of the horizon—the house. She put a hand to her chest. It felt like a magnetic tug.

"You feel that?" she asked.

He rubbed his eyes, sighing happily. She hated to cut that feeling short, but this pull was _odd._

"Hey," she said softly.

He opened his eyes, saw the look on her face. "What?"

"Um, I need you to focus. Pay attention—pay attention inside." She didn't know how else to phrase it. The tug came from an inch near her heart.

He sat up, seeming to listen to something she couldn't hear. Then he nodded, slowly, eyebrows creasing.

"It's—it's pretty strong, for me." He rubbed his chest and made a small grimace.

"Does it hurt? A lot?" she asked.

"Nah, I'm fine." Gingerly, he got to his feet, staring at the distant house—and then he gasped, clutching his chest, bending over. " _Ahh_! It's _—_ O-okay, _now_ it hurts." Red bent over him; after a moment he straightened up, grimacing, eyes watering.

"What _is_ this?" he gasped.

"No idea," she said shakily. The pull inside of her wasn't nearly _that_ strong.

"Think we should head back?"

Red glanced at the red fleck that was the building. Something inside her—something that had nothing to do with this new and uncomfortable tug—suspected Royce was behind this.

"No," she said, trying to keep her voice even and hoping she was wrong. "Let's—let's get as far away as possible. Maybe it'll stop."

Although He looked uneasy he didn't object. As they continued the tug inside Red's chest became irritating and more persistent; ignoring it was hard. She watched Him closely and stayed by his side.

He slipped on his jacket and bundled it up, shivering, and she took his hand as bitter inadequacy threatened to overwhelm her. Soon sweat started pouring down his face, and he began stumbling.

"R-Red—I—" He fell to his knees, eyes unfocused.

She tried to hold down her panic but it didn't work. It _gushed_. Her hands began shaking violently. "This—it's my fault, we shouldn't have gone on— _I'm sorry_ —" What had she done?

He fumbled for her hands as his eyes came back into focus, and she didn't let go of him for the world.

"L-look," he gasped The fingers of one hand twitched, though he had no strength to point. "Bikes."

A hundred or more motorcycles were heaped in lengthy piles along the foothills; rusty, wet, ripped in half, crushed, melted. With a chill Red recognized the model; they'd ridden one throughout the Process-riddled Cloudbank when in a hurry.

His words from back then rang in her head, as if they'd been uttered seconds ago: _Bike deserves some kind of reward. Not to get wiped out like all his bike friends. See you in the Country, Mr. Bike_.

They were here—all of them.

He began to chuckle deliriously. Red cursed herself. She should never have pushed him this far, all to discover a moldering mountain of dead motorbikes. Idiot!

She hauled him upright, gritting her teeth and ignoring the strain near her own heart, which had gotten stronger. He sagged against her shoulder. Compared to him, now, the Transistor sword seemed as light as a feather.

"Come on," she said; he was now breathing like each one was a pain to take in. "We're going back."

"Red—this pull, this feeling—" He looked up at her, struggling to keep her in focus. "It's d-different from from The Spine—and—"

His knees gave out from under him, and his skin had turned deathly pale. Red almost couldn't breathe. Horrified tears pricked the corners of her eyes. No, no, no—This was all her doing, she'd pushed him.

"—this isn't Royce's fault," he rasped.


	2. Chapter 2

The sky was dark, glassy green when Red barged into the kitchen, supporting him as best she could. Her arm and leg muscles were screaming. As she'd neared the red house the feeling inside of her had gotten stronger and stronger until she thought her chest was going to burst.

Red lowered Him into a chair before collapsing into one herself. He had fallen unconscious halfway back. Red closed her eyes and slumped forward, panting heavily and soaked in sweat, too exhausted to think and wishing she could sleep for ten years.

The shuffle of paper and mutter of voices drifted to her from the living room. The Camerata. Bile rose and Red gritted her teeth. There was no way this wasn't Royce's fault, she refused to believe it. Royce had done something to them.

After a few more minutes, she forced herself to her aching feet, stumbled through the kitchen, and shoved open the living room door. Red blinked in the sudden harsh light.

Large blueprints covered the sofa. Diagrams of what looked like exaggerated depictions of carving knives hung on three of the four walls, overlapping one another. The round table was buried underneath stacks of paper and had plenty more on the floor around it. Red couldn't make out the carpet; two white bed sheets had been flung down and drawn upon with a bleeding black pen, extra notes in red. Mathematical papers had been stapled to the sheets' edges, with additional connections allowing longer equations to continue. There were four jars stuffed with pencils and pens, and the amount of two more jars scattered across the floor and sofa.

In the middle of it all stood the Camerata: Royce Bracket, and Grant and Asher Kendrell. All three had frazzled hair and fingers covered in ink, but none so much as Royce. He stood like a rigid pole, hand to his chin and a look of savage concentration in his eyes.

None of them looked up.

"What did you _do_ to us?" Red cried. "Especially to _him_? Answer me!"

Royce crouched down and circled a tower of mathematical figures. "That'll do," he whispered. "Yes." With big red Xs he crossed out other page-long diagrams. "No. No. No. Aaand—no."

" _Answer me_!" yelled Red.

"Shut up," snapped Grant Kendrell, glowering.

Asher glanced at her sweaty face and bedraggled hair, leafing through a stack of papers written on both sides and making corrections.

Red strode towards them, hands balling into fists. "You—"

It was her feet crackling on the floor's papers and twisting the inky sheets underfoot that snapped Royce out of it. He finally looked up.

"Oh," he said vaguely, and returned his gaze to the papers a second later. "It's you. No, not now. Not now. Not doing. Quick."

This last was to Asher and Grant: they seized Red under the arms and started dragging her towards the second floor door. Red struggled, tried to anchor her foot around the sofa's leg, but the men were too strong, like iron bulls. Even Asher, who was particularly skinny and ratty, had a grip tighter than she would've believed.

Red twisted around, white-hot fury coursing through her. " _Royce_! Don't think you can avoid this! Tell me—"

" _I'm working_ ," he snapped, and began to pour over a long, triple-columned check list, making a couple of marks.

Asher and Grant shoved her through the door so hard she stumbled and crashed into the stairs. Blood starting pouring from her nose.

" _You—_!" Red sprang up, leaping for the door, but they slammed it shut with an echoing bang, and the last thing Red saw was _him_ , slumped at the kitchen table, unprotected and utterly vulnerable.

A key scraped in the lock.

Red pounded the door, kicked it, yelling and shouting, wrenching at the useless handle. Her head was pounding; blood rushed through her ears. She didn't even feel the throb of her bleeding nose. Stepping back she tried to shoulder the door down, but it would not budge.

"You bastards!" Red screeched. He was on the other side of the door, in the kitchen and still unconscious. Cold terror flooded her. He was _alone_ with the Camerata.

She dashed up the stairs and barged into their bedroom. Flinging herself at the window, she pushed up, snarling, but it refused to move.

It had been nailed shut.

Red tore out of the room and didn't even hesitant at the first of two doors across the hall. She flung open the one on the left, entering Royce Brackett's paper-strewn bedroom and jumping over the bed—which looked as if it had never been slept in—and groped at his window. It had been nailed shut, too.

Red kicked the wall and dashed into the third bedroom, belonging to Grant and Asher Kendrell. Their bed was messier, disheveled; she clambered over the massive comforter on the floor, kicked aside an extra pillow, and lunged towards the first of the two windows in the room. Please, she thought just before touching it—but it, too, had been nailed shut. So had the other.

Red went into the corridor and leaned against the wall, gripping her stomach, sick with fear. What else could she do?

No matter how hard she tried, images of the Camerata doing awful things to Him appeared in her mind, and would not go away. Dissecting him. Torturing him. Torturing her and making him watch.

No, Red thought, nails digging into her palms, biting her lip so hard she punctured the skin, think of something else, anything else—

She felt as though she was going to burst. Rushing back into their bedroom, she wrenched open every drawer in the dresser and nightstand, but they were all empty save for a silver hairbrush.

Rushing again to Royce's room, she yanked open his drawers but they were empty as well; so were Grant's and Asher's.

A single hairbrush. Red's throat seized up and she tried to withhold furious tears. What could she possibly to with that?

The sky had turned to the impenetrable blackness of deepest night when Red flung herself down on her bed, more exhausted than she'd ever been in her entire life. She wanted more than anything to let sleep envelope her so she wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to be so terrified.

Yet she remained awake, straining her ears to pick up any sound from downstairs. The sounds of him putting up a fight, or shouting—anything to suggest he was awake and alive.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Think of something else, something else.

Nothing came, only the sickening fear, somehow even worse than before.

"Please be okay," she whispered before, finally, falling into a restless sleep.

Golden sunlight woke her.

She yanked the hairbrush through her bright red hair, scowling at herself in the small hanging mirror. What could she do? What could she do?

" _Something_ ," Red muttered, but dread was already knotting itself in her stomach. She ran out and thundered down the stairs, and hammered on the door, yanked on it. Still locked.

"Royce Bracket! You can hear me, I know it. This _feeling_ —what is it? What did you do?" It hadn't disappeared during the night; now her skin felt twisted, strained, and beads of sweat were already beginning to form on her forehead. As she spoke it gave a particularly nasty twinge; she gritted her teeth. "I _know_ you can hear me."

A pen scratched on paper.

She gripped the door handle with white-knuckled hands, wishing she could burn it down along with Royce.

" _Is he all right_?"

Papers shuffled; there was a large, heavy rustle as something was lifted and pinned to a wall.

"Grant! Asher!" she yelled. "Let me out, damn you."

Either Royce was working alone today or they were not responding, either.

Red pressed her head against the door. Her chest throbbed and strained.

If she could just see Him, see him and know he was alright. If she could just do that—

"We are," Red found herself muttering in desperation as she thrust all her weight against the door, "magnets pulling from different poles—", now yanking at the knob with sore hands, "—with no control—" trying to pick the lock with hairbrush bristles "—we'll never—" they snapped "—be apart… _Damn it_!"

Red slumped to the floor, seething, drawing blood as her fingernails pierced her palm. Wetness pricking her eyes. She struggled to swallow through the lump in her throat, and the constant pulling sensation made her light-headed.

There _had_ to be something. Some way to get to him. There just had to be.

The day passed in agonizing slowness. Red prowled up and down the stairs, along the hall, paced through the bedrooms. Again and again. She discovered the bedroom windows were thick and unbreakable. Occasionally she would slam against the door and demand answers of Royce, or shout furious questions, but the only response would be the rustle and shuffle of paper, the scribble of a pen, or footsteps unaccompanied by any voice.

When the sun began to set, Red hated to admit to herself that she was going in circles. Going nowhere.

When darkness blanketed the landscape she threw herself furiously onto her bed. There was nothing more she could do.

Red tried to think.

They had been sitting together when the tugging had started. Red had felt it first, but He had had it more severely. It had seemed to be coming from the house, but he'd said Royce had had nothing to do with it. And that's another thing, she thought. Where'd he get _that_ idea?

There was no way such a thing could be true. Royce was possibly the most cunning member of the Camerata.

Red clasped her hands behind her head, looking up at the dark ceiling, trying to push past the fogginess of her mind. She shouldn't be so quick to dismiss a theory given to her, otherwise what kind of person would she be?

Let's run it through, she thought and chewed her lip, which was covered in little splotches of dried blood. Could Grant Kendrell be responsible? Well, he _had_ founded the Camerata, and he'd also been the longest-running public servant in Cloudbank's recorded history, she recalled. But Red refused to feel impressed by his lengthy record.

Folding her arms, she decided he was unlikely. Her head pounded. Although intelligent and sharp-minded, this didn't seem like something Grant Kendrell would know how to do.

Asher, then? Perhaps, she thought, but felt skeptical. He'd been so distraught by Grant's death that he had quickly followed, and although they were together now, she doubted Asher would want to waste time on someone whom he viewed with so much disgust.

That left Royce, the architect of the group. He'd been in the Country longer than Red, but less than Grant and Asher. But that almost didn't even matter; Red didn't think she'd be surprised if he was able to work out the Country's inner workings in a single day. If he could do that, even hypothetically, then he could certainly do this.

Why had the feeling, whatever it was, affected Him more than Red, though? Had his condition worsened through the day?

Questions spiraled in Red's exhausted mind until she couldn't think of any possible answers, consider any kind of solutions, except that of sleep.

She hated herself. This entire day had been a waste.

For all intents and purposes, she had fought for air, circled the drain, and died.

Red woke suddenly. It was still night.

She sat up, listening. Crashes came from downstairs. Something thudded heavily. Three voices were shouting, furious and panicky— _enraged—_

A forth voice yelled: His voice.

Leaping from the bed, she raced downstairs to the door and pressed her ear against it. That proved unnecessary, however, as a tremendous crash made the floor shudder. Papers crunched under feet, there was grunting and shuffling—and then a gigantic thud as someone was slammed against the wall.

"Royce!" Red yelled. "Let him go!"

He thudded to the floor, and Royce grunted, papers crunching underfoot as he stumbled back, presumably avoiding a blow; the floor shook as He was thrown to the ground by one of the Kendrells.

Red rattled the door handle, though it wouldn't yield. "Royce! Let him go! _Stop!_ " If she could just _see_ —help him—

Royce said something, voice muffled and sounding only slightly breathless. Asher replied, eager. Shadows twisted from the crack under the door as he bent down.

"…a little lesson…so you'll _never…_!" snarled Asher, and He yelled.

"Royce!" Red screamed, more furious than she'd ever been in her life, and more terrified. "Let—him—" Tears spilled down her face.

The door burst open, blinding her with light. Asher Kendrell sneered down at her, jacket hanging off his shoulder, a single bleeding scrape on his cheek. "Oh. You were listening. Here. Not that it matters, for much longer."

The man was shoved into the doorway; he tumbled on top of her, too weak to stand.

"R-Red—" he muttered as the door was locked again.

With no windows in the hall and minimal light from under the door, seeing him was impossible. Hauling him upright, Red slung his limp arm over her shoulder.

"Hang on." Her voice shook uncontrollably.

He moaned and winced violently with every step up the stairs. She trembled under his weight as blood started leaking onto her shoulder.

At long last they made it to the top of the stairs and to their bedroom. She lowered him as gently as she could onto the bed and switched on the light.

Blood poured freely from a huge cut on his left shoulder, and his face was red and purple. There were marks around his throat.

"Red," he gasped. "They—"

"T-try to calm down, it's going to be okay, it's got to be—" Red didn't know what she was saying. She peeled off his black jacket, now covered in blood. He gritted his teeth.

Without the jacket the cut looked even worse. Blood pooled onto the blankets. Hands shaking, Red tore off a pillowcase and ran to the other end of the hall and the small bathroom.

She turned the faucet. Nothing came out.

"Come _on_ ," she cried, slamming the side of the sink. Now wasn't the time for the Country to act as if its occupants didn't need water.

After a few seconds, the tap shuddered and water gushed out. Red soaked the pillowcase thoroughly and dashed back to the room.

"Hang on, hang on," she said. Underneath the bruises and a sheen of sweat, his face was pale, and he said no words, gritting his teeth as Red began peeling off his shirt. Not wanting to hurt him further by asking him to move, Red ripped off the rest of it.

She sponged the wound with the wet pillowcase as best she could. He winced with every touch.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Blinking away fresh tears with an effort, she stripped the other pillow of its case and tore it in half. She tied it around the wound and He flinched, growling.

"Okay, it's—it's done now."

Red perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing the hair back from his face. Her heart was beating very, very fast, and now that the cut had been bandaged she didn't know what to say.

He lay there, breathing raggedly for a long time. And then he whispered,

"They're making—another Transistor."

It had never rained in the Country before, but it was raining heavily now, pounding the roof and making the ceiling moan. Red lay curled up at the front of the bed, near His head. He'd fallen asleep a while ago.

Red's eyelids were heavy, yet she couldn't sleep.

They had to get away, get out of this house before the Camerata had time to do anything else. Based on the wound in his shoulder, they had already taken a step in their plans.

Lightning lit up the room for an instant.

There was only one way, as far as Red knew, to enter the Transistor: death. While the sword impaled your body, your soul would become bonded to it. Uploaded, for lack of a better term. Stuck there. Glued.

But the new Transistor _couldn't_ be almost done, could it? There was no way.

Red had always assumed the building of one would take many months, maybe even years of planning, if the piles of paper and additional projector screens filled with rows of text—not to mention the huge diagrams of the weapon—in Bracket Towers back in Cloudbank were anything to go on.

The rain pounded a little louder on the window. It was like a raging sea.

It doesn't connect, thought Red, chewing the inside of her cheek. It's been mere days since Royce said he wanted to go back to Cloudbank. There's no way a Transistor could be build in that amount of time, much less one functioning enough to absorb a soul.

Then why did they attack Him?

She glanced at his sleeping form, laying on the bloody sheets. The bruises and dark blood made her stomach knot.

Red's eyelids sagged. This time she allowed them to drift closed. When he was awake tomorrow, if he was up to it, he could tell her what happened.

The front door slammed, loud as a clap of thunder.

Red's eyes flew open and she sat up, listening hard. The rain hammered against the roof.

She slipped off the bed.

The sudden noise hadn't woken him; his chest rose and fell, the developed bruises on his face looking even worse in the dim light.

She tiptoed to the window and looked out. Two dark shapes pushed through the fields of wheat, and they were heading—if Red's memory was correct—to the foothills with the destroyed motorcycles.

She squinted. A long red coat rippled, and there was a shorter white one which managed to look impatient and uptight even from this distance.

Grant and Asher Kendrell.

Pressing her head against the cool pane Red peered through the raindrops, following them with her gaze until they vanished into the night.

She gritted her teeth, itching to go after them. What were they after? One look at the motorcycles would easily let them know they were nonfunctional.

Red yawned and turned back to the soft bed, blinking heavily and trying to forget, at least for now, what she'd just seen. Sleep was more important—well, necessary. Especially during a time like this. It had to be three o'clock in the morning.

Heading towards the bed, Red began to sit down, but then the door at the foot of the stairs creaked open.

Red straightened, now completely awake. Royce Bracket's footsteps came up the stairs. Every nerve of Red's was on fire.

 _The door was open._

Heart beating wildly, Red inched herself to her feet and crept towards the half-open bedroom door. She peered out.

Royce came along the corridor, holding a single sheet of paper and glaring at it so furiously Red thought it would burst into flames. His lips moved as he read it silently.

He pushed open the door to his room without looking up from the paper, and then closed it behind him.

Red stayed where she was, clenching her hand. Only after bed springs creaked from the other room and blankets rustled did she step into the shadowy hallway and dash to the staircase.

Following Grant and Asher would be too risky just now, she thought, stepping as quietly as possible. If she didn't make it back in time they would lock the stair door behind them, and that would leave her stuck in the living room.

Just thinking about what they would to do her if they found her there made her skin crawl.

But, if she could see their progress on the Transistor and get upstairs before Grant and Asher came back, she could, just maybe, begin to make some kind of plan.

Hardly daring to believe it, Red held her breath and pressed gently against the door. A squeal came from the hinges.

She jumped violently and stayed the door handle, straining her ears for any noise from upstairs.

Two tense minutes passed. Releasing a shaky breath, Red held the knob in a tight fist. She needed to be very careful about this.

Opening it inch by inch, the hinges didn't make a sound. Still, not daring to open the door entirely, she drew herself up and squeezed past as soon as it was wide enough.

Red stepped into the living room and met almost complete blackness. It didn't have any windows; the only light came from the silver square that was the kitchen entrance—all the way across the mountains of papers and the stapled sheets on the floor, and it was very, very dim.

Red's heartbeat throbbed in her ears. Surely Royce would come down any moment. Her back and shoulders prickled.

She held down a shudder with difficulty. The darkness and constant thrumming of the rain brought back images of when she'd been inside The Spine, a massive creature of the Process, on her way to kill it. Although a massive heartbeat was missing, the thrumming made of her think of the roar of its blood.

She took a single step into the living room—touched down on carpet. Good. No papers yet. She reached out with her hands, the rush of her breathing now thundering through her head. With each microscopic step she looked down, into the pitch blackness, straining to see and seeing nothing.

The tugging ache to the left of her heart didn't make things any better. She winced as it gave a sudden, quick twinge.

The tip of her left foot crunched on a trail of papers and she stepped back hurriedly. What felt like freezing needle points ran across her back.

If only she had some more light.

Red got down on her knees. Maybe crawling would be easier. She went forward.

Silence—success, for a few, brief moments—

Crunch. She'd reached the edge of one of the sheets. The cold top of a staple pressed against her knee. Through her fear and pounding heart, frustration surfaced. There had to be a better way to do this.

Reaching forward, hand low and hovering in the dark, she lowered it and met soft cloth. That's right, she thought. Just the edges of the sheets have papers on them. If she could get across those and reach the kitchen's light—

Standing up, she stepped forward, lowered her bare foot tentatively, and felt the sheets. Red almost sighed with relief.

She made her way across it, thankful the Camerata hadn't laid anything else in the middle. Her movements made the quietest of rustlings. The diagrams on the walls shifted in a sudden breeze like ghosts.

When Red felt the edge of a paper, before the merest admonitory crackle could be made, she stepped over it and onto the second sheet.

It was a little easier to see now that she was near the kitchen's faint light. From the small window, shadows of rain lined the floor.

Red paused as something caught her eye. Bending down, she snatched up the single sheet of paper. It had been dislodged from the other ones, slightly torn at the top with its silver staple dangling limply. Half of it was filled with a complicated scientific table, written in Grant Kendrell's squat hand, while the other part had been erased in a mass of stormy smudges.

On top of that, in bright red ink and the cramped style of Royce Bracket, was written:

 _rainhue. history/memory? registered population density? UNregistered population density? do they even do that?_

 _time_

 _looks like it found me. funny thing_

 _what i wouldnt give for a computer or terminal_

 _what does rainhue look like?_

 _asher kendrell can be an idiot to work with sometimes_

 _rainhue geographical location? could be a problem_

Red wished she could keep this. But something told her, very strongly, Royce would notice if it went missing. She replaced it carefully and regretfully on the floor.

One of the wall diagrams on her right drooped, hanging by a single corner. It was wrinkled, edges torn, and looked about to fall any second. The sofa was at an angle, its legs crumpling some of the papers on the floor, and a few blueprints had fallen to the carpet.

Right in front of the sofa, in the faint light from the kitchen window—Red's stomach twisted sickeningly—the papers and fallen blueprints were covered in a large splattering of dark blood. _His_ blood.

The thick trail went passed where Red stood and into the kitchen. Gingerly stepping into the moonlight space, she thought she was going to be sick.

The round table had been shoved against the counter, chairs knocked to the floor. Even the refrigerator had been knocked askew. Four giant pools of blood glistened in the moonlight.

Red shook with anger and horror. She leaned against the wall and shut her eyes. Those _despicable_ human beings.

Something wet dripped onto her already bloodstained shoulder. Red glanced up.

There was even a splatter of blood on the _wall_. Distantly, she felt proud of him. He must have put up quite a fight.

Time for her to do the same.

Taking a deep breath, Red began to examine the kitchen—or she would have, if the most obvious thing hadn't smacked her around the head first. She didn't know _how_ she'd failed to notice it before.

The fridge glowed blue.

She stepped up to it to get a better look. Aqua light shone from the door and above freezer compartment, somehow making it through the seals to prevent cold air from escaping.

The freezing blue light could even be seen, albeit very dimly, through the door itself.

Red stared, almost unable to believe it. It was as if she'd gotten punched in the gut—which actually wasn't that far from the truth, because Red _knew_ this blue.

She knew what it was, who it belonged to, and what it could do.

But this is impossible, she thought numbly. There's no way Royce and the others could've already—

The front door rattled.

Red jumped violently. For a single split-second she stood there, frozen—the door seemed to open in slow motion—their shadows were upon the bloody floor—

She turned and ran out of the kitchen, sprinted through the living room, wrenched open the door, barely remembering to close it behind her, and up the stairs to her bedroom.

Red leapt onto the bed, scrambled under the sheets and listened with all her might, heart pounding, looking wide-eyed through the half-open doorway.

Within what seemed like seconds, Grant and Asher Kendrell lumbered up the stairs. They were both soaking, looked deeply annoyed, and didn't even notice Red in the shadows.

"The sooner we're back in Cloudbank, the better," Grant muttered, barely managing to cover a yawn with his hand, his long red jacket dripping water onto the floorboards.

Asher shrugged, wearing an expression of equal boredom and exhaustion. "He'll want us to go again tomorrow."

Grant growled in annoyance as they headed to their bedroom.

After a while, mulling over her discoveries, Red finally fell asleep.

"They've got your Function," Red told Him as soon as he'd woken up. Blazing golden sunlight poured into the room from the nailed-shut window, which was covered in water marks.

He gave his bandaged left arm a look of disgust. "Knew it."

Red looked down bitterly. While the Camerata hadn't killed him, stealing his Function was the next worse thing.

They now had a weapon even deadlier than the sword itself.

If a person's soul became absorbed in a Transistor—or if so much as some blood was used, a voice stolen—the living wielder of the sword could use the essence of the person's soul, a kind of representation of who they used to be, as a tool. These essences, called Functions, were as varied as the people they derived from. _His_ Function, a blindingly blue shock of lightning-like energy, had saved Red's life on more than one occasion.

"They're keeping it in the fridge," she said. "Somehow, they—I guess they managed to get it without absorbing it directly into the sword."

He turned to face her. "What? The fridge? How'd they even get it in there?"

Red shrugged. "Special gloves?"

"Meanwhile the Country can't even supply _us_ with a working sink. Or proper medical supplies." He scowled.

Red fingered a hole in the bloodstained sheets. The sink hadn't worked again since last night, so she'd been unable to clean them. Even if it had, she doubted she could've gotten the blood out entirely.

"It kind of makes sense, I guess," he said, shifting position on the bed's edge.

"What does?"

He looked down, suddenly withdrawn and quiet. "Being in there, in the Transistor—"

Red's attention perked before she could stop it. He'd never talked in detail about what being trapped in the Transistor was like.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, speaking softly. "W-well, it's—it's pretty _cold_ in there. Keeping a Function in someplace cold only makes sense."

"Hang on," said Red, realizing something. "If they've already got your Function, what do they need _you_ in there for?"

He didn't reply for several moments, instead concentrating very hard on something Red couldn't feel or hear, staring at his knees, intense, focused and rigid. Or perhaps he was working it up to tell her something he'd realized the moment Red had told him that they had his Function.

"They still need me," he whispered at last, expression full of dread, anger and fear all at once. He clutched his bloodstained shoulder. "This wasn't enough. The Function is weak; I can kind of feel it. It's like they only got half of it."

Red allowed a small amount of relief to trickle into her. This would give them a little more time. But worry still gnawed at her. Could the Camerata use his Function to somehow complete the Transistor faster?

"Listen," Red told him urgently, gripping his good shoulder and feeling she was saying this to convince herself as much as him. "They didn't get you that time, and they won't again. Come on. We can deal with just _half_ a Function."

"Dodge behind the couch?"

Her blue gaze was intense. "I told you before: I _won't_ let you go back in there. You're going to be safe."

He pressed against her but still looked worried. "Thanks."

Downstairs came the sound of something very heavy and metal scraping slowly across the floor. Someone unlocked the stair door, jogged up the steps and went into one of the bedrooms. There was silence for a moment, then the rustle of sheets as they tried to move a large object, judging from the muffled curses.

Red and the man both stepped up and peeked through the two-inch gap of their bedroom door. Asher was hefting a bare mattress, struggling to pull it along the narrow corridor and down the stairs. His golden hair, frazzled and in clear need of a brush, kept flopping into his face. Stumbling as he reached the stairs, Asher cursed loudly.

"A mattress?" He whispered, smirking slightly. "Trying to sleep down there, too?"

Red shook her head. "They must need some part of it for something."

Carefully, the door was shut. "Springs, maybe?"

She stepped away quietly and sat on the bed again. "Hmm. Maybe."

Red wouldn't have been surprised if he was right about that. The Transistor she'd used hadn't exactly had mattress stuffing inside.

She chewed her lip and glanced out the door as Asher continued maneuvering the thick mattress down the staircase. What had her little exploration last night really achieved? The Camerata had lightning in a _fridge_ , ready to explode and destroy things the moment they wanted it to. He and Red had nothing in comparison.

Red had been a pretty good fighter in Cloudbank—more than pretty good, if she was honest with herself—but that had been _with a Transistor._ She had literally been using the souls of others to survive, and it was at times like this when the thought scared her.

How good of a fighter was she, really?

"We've got to come up with a counterattack," she said. "A real counterattack. If there's really nothing we can do to stop this"—just saying it out loud was like a betrayal—"the least we can do is prepare the best we can."

He sat next to her, nodding, serious. "Couldn't agree more, Red."

Red glimpsed herself in the mirror. Asher's hair wasn't the only one in need of a brush. Standing up, she seized the silver hairbrush in a drawer and began drawing it through her hair, thinking furiously. What could the two of them do against the men of the Camerata?

Red looked at the bloodstained sheets in the mirror's reflection.

"Hey," she said, brushing slower. "The sink in the bathroom—it hasn't given out water anymore. Not since last night."

"Yeah," he said slowly, glancing at her. "Blame the Country for it, I guess."

An idea began to form as she brushed, the precise up-down motion clearing her mind. "I think—I think that's exactly what we need to do."

"What?"

Red's eyebrows came together as she tried to find the words to explain. "We only have one hairbrush. A refrigerator with no food. A sink that doesn't pour water." She parted her hair down one side. "It's like—it's like this place, this Country, isn't _used_ to humans being here at all. Even though we _are_ here."

He looked down, tapping a finger against his knee. Then he touched the pillowcase bandage on his left shoulder. "Hang on, Red. The sink _did_ give you water last night."

Chewing her tongue thoughtfully, she set down the hairbrush and turned to him. "That's what I can't figure out. It's like we're here and we're not meant to be, like the Country doesn't _want_ us here."

Passing the closet, she flung open its doors. There weren't even hangers inside, much less clothes. "See? It's a giant replica. But then, last night—it listened to me. The Country. It gave me what I wanted."

He rubbed his chin, glancing again at the bloody bandage around his shoulder. "I'd say it gave you what you _needed_. If it just gave us what we wanted, it'd give us a way out, wouldn't it?"

She started pacing in front of the bed. "Tricky customer."

Silence came from downstairs. Red pictured them tugging all the springs out of the mattresses, and hoped one of them would get Royce or Asher in the eye.

"Hey," He caught her by the wrists.

"What?" she asked, stopping.

"Sorry, Red. It's just—I think I've figured it out. That tugging. Have a feeling it might be connected to what you're saying." He took a breath, looked away from her, and didn't speak for a few moments. "You know that sort of fake sun—that red afterimage? Hangs in the sky like a moon at night."

She nodded. "Of course."

He breathed out a little shakily. "Blue sky—lines of cloud or sunlight—red circle, almost like an eye—uh, remind you of anything?"

It was like ice-cold water had been dumped all over Red. She backed away, hands over her mouth as an image of a certain sword burst into her mind. "N-no _way_."

"Back when I was—inside that _thing_ ," he said quietly, "whenever you would use my Function, I'd get a kind of feeling."

She almost didn't dare say anything.

"When it shot from the sword, it was like remembering the name of someone you used to know in school. Felt familiar." He looked down at his hand, made a fist slowly. "Only it was _me_."

Next moment he shrugged. "Nah, forget it. Doesn't make sense, does it?"

Red looked at him in awe. For her, the action of selecting Functions to prepare for yet another fight had been a cross between tapping a screen and rummaging in cool darkness until touching something she knew, or had forgot she'd known, or wanted to know. Finding _people_ , getting a hold of them.

It had been a curious thing that she hadn't even started to understand fully then, and she didn't think she could wrap her mind around it entirely even now.

"That's why Royce took my Function first instead of yours," he said, grimacing. "With Breach, getting back into Cloudbank shouldn't be a problem."

She remembered what Royce had told her as clearly as if it had been mere minutes ago: "... _you can_ cut _your way back into the real world for me_."

Red collapsed onto the bed next to him, drained.

"You dueled Royce Bracket inside a massive Transistor when the one you used was put back," he said softly. "But then, afterwards—when you, w-well—"

He looked down and Red remembered, guiltily, the torment he'd been in moments before she had done a certain something to reunite with him.

"We both initially thought we were free. But after fighting Royce we never really left."

"What are you saying?" Red whispered.

"I think—" he squeezed her hand, looked her in the eye. "The Country is a Transistor. A really, really _really_ big one."

Red's stomach seemed to vanish. She struggled to speak but then gave up. No words seemed to fit. This couldn't be real.

"Remember," he said hesitantly, "when I would sometimes talk to the people before—before you'd absorb them with the sword?"

She managed to nod.

"I could barely hear them." He placed a hand over his heart. "This place is talking to me, to us, kind of like that. You say the Country—this Transistor—isn't used to us being here. I think it's this pulling feeling. It's telling us to leave."

"All of us? Grant and Asher, too?"

He paused, thinking, then gave a thoughtful kind of shrug. "I think it's just the people who were inside the other Transistor. I mean, the one you used."

"So," Red said, "there's no way Asher and Grant could feel this."

"Exactly. And as for Royce, he must just be ignoring it."

They heard Grant Kendrell stomped up the stairs, muttering about stupid mattresses. A bedroom door crashed open. Royce shouted something at him from the living room.

"Even if Royce is ignoring it, do you think he _knows_?" Red said.

"He seems too caught up in his little project to me," he said sourly.

Red began pacing again, trying to wrap her mind around everything. The room seemed smaller than usual.

"Maybe," He said after a while, "since I was the—the _loudest_ inside there—that's why I'm able to hear what this place is trying to say. Well, what it's feeling towards us, at least." His face was gray and drawn, and Red realized he hadn't done this much talking in a long time, much less about one of the worst parts of his life.

From the floor below came a metallic screeching and grinding. Something was rolled inside the house, rumbling over floorboards. Asher Kendrell gave a snappish, irritated order.

Red twisted a strand of hair around her fingertip, brow furrowing. An almost scary idea had just occurred to her.

"What if we can make it listen to us? This place. The Country."

His head snapped up. "What?"

Red placed a hand on her aching chest, thinking hard. "This might be the _only_ chance we have. The only weapon we can use against Royce and the others—if we could somehow use this _place_ to our advantage, could use it _against_ them—"

She hesitated. He stood up, looking grim, and finished her sentence.

"Before it's too late."

He drew Red to him, wrapping his arms around her, and Red took a deep, steadying breath, listening to the silence, practically memorizing the feeling of his strong, safe embrace, hardening her heart for the task ahead.

"We'll do it!" he whispered in her ear, and then unmistakable pride entered his voice. "You are something else, Red. You know that? Coming up with an idea like this. Genius."

Downstairs, something thudded and crashed heavily to the floor. Royce, Asher and Grant all sounded excited—too excited. Red tried to force herself not to think about the fridge, open, blue light shining out, of a large, half-made sword ready for a recipient.

She gripped his coat, unable to speak for a moment, breathing in the warm smell of him and focusing.

She looked up and forced a half-grimace, half-smile. "Yeah. We'll do it. That's what hope is for, right?"


	3. Chapter 3

Red stared at the bathroom sink. Come on, she thought, furiously, as Grant Kendrell knelt behind her and worked on unbolting the white claw-footed bathtub.

As soon as he looked up to reach for another tool perched on the side of the sink, Red slumped, let her grimace slack, and tried to look on the verge of tears.

By no means did she consider herself an actress, but Grant Kendrell didn't even spare her a second glance. Red inwardly sighed in relief before glaring at the sink once again, concentrating on the silver tap with all her might.

It might've looked stupid, and had sounded kind of ridiculous in their planning stages, but right now it was all He and Red could think of: force the Country to listen to them, force its attention to be diverted to them, because they were going to metaphorically kick it until it did.

She tapped her finger against the white ceramic. Come on, come on, come on.

Grant muttered something and whipped a lock of hair away from his eyes, fumbling up for another tool.

Nothing came from the faucet. For the next five minutes it remained stubbornly dry. Red was already pushing her luck as it was. She couldn't pretend to mope forever or Grant would start getting suspicious. The Camerata had largely been ignoring them since they had attacked Him and gotten his Function.

"Are you done yet?" called Royce from downstairs. His voice sounded odd and strained when it was raised.

"I think I've got it," Grant shouted through the open bathroom door. Getting to his feet, he snatched the handful of large black tools and swept past Red, his vibrant coat billowing out behind him as he stepped past a stack of papers and thundered down the equally cluttered stairs.

Red watched Grant until he was out of sight. She let out a breath, gripping the sides of the sink and scowling at it before going into the bedroom she shared with Him. Right now the small room was the only haven, both of safety and cleanliness.

"We've got a problem," He said as soon as she entered.

"What?"

He folded his arms, leaning against the wall. "Thought about it for ages, last night. It should have been obvious from the start. Where are Royce and Asher and Grant getting all this stuff?"

Their plans for the Transistor, besides covering the living room, now blanketed the hallway of the second floor as well. Diagrams and scientific charts were practically growing on the walls and the floor was spread with towering stacks of paper so thick and tall it was almost impossible to move. At least now one of Royce's notes made sense to Red: "what i wouldnt give for a computer or terminal". Frankly, Red had to admit to herself that she agreed on that point.

"There's just one possible answer," he said, scowling at the mess outside before slamming the door. "They're getting their supplies from here, from the Country itself."

Red bit down on her thumbnail, thinking of barrenness of the red house their first day here, how it had all, suddenly, piled up: the reams upon reams of paper, the blueprints, the pencils and pens. The heavy, black specific tools Grant had used to unbolt the bathtub. They should've realized the strangeness of this right away, should have realized the danger.

She kicked the bed and started to pace.

The walls of the room pressed in on her, the sun glared through the nailed-shut windows and made the floorboards burn, and the path she bored with her feet seemed to shrink with each round. Red tapped a finger, quicker and quicker, against her leg.

"But," she burst out, "but there's no way—how the hell could Royce and the others have such a command over the Country already? It's giving them anything they want. It doesn't add up, it can't." Frustration boiled inside her, and the oppressive heat of the room wasn't helping.

He ran both hands through his dark hair, growling. "I—I don't know."

Red almost didn't dare say what was really on her mind. If Royce and the others had such command over the Country already, how could they possibly use it to fight back?

She clenched and unclenched her hand, biting the inside of her cheek. So much for their one and only weapon, so much for hope, so much for—

Letting lose a furious yell, she rammed her shoulder against the hot window, seething up at the sun with its jewel-red afterimage—the eye of the biggest Transistor in existence.

"Damn. It," she said through clenched teeth, body taught with rage.

Then she slumped against the burning window, pinching the bridge of her nose, hair clinging to her sweaty face and neck. Insulting the Country wasn't the best way to get in its good graces. Obviously.

"Sorry," she said to the room in general.

A muffled rumble came from the living room below, a clatter of tools, and Asher Kendrell's dry voice.

Red's heart sank. Since she had come up with the plan, time seemed to have sped up, and even worse her plan seemed to have been deflated of any potential usefulness, excitement, or hope.

"Come on," she forced herself to say. "Let's get back to work."

As things stood now, the new Transistor's completion seemed to be zooming nearer with each passing hour, and the effort they put into trying to get the Country to notice them was going nowhere.

The Camerata never slept, or so it seemed to Red. Soon blueprints and papers consumed almost the entire house, including their own bedrooms. The smallest bedroom, shared by Red and Him, was only spared because Royce had taken, as the weeks passed, to locking both of them in there day and night so they couldn't see any progress the Camerata were making.

Red's experimental trip to the bathroom had been the first and last. Soon she caught herself thinking almost longingly of that day, just walking out of her room and down the hall. They kept track of the days by pulling out hairbrush bristles and lining them up on the dresser each night, and they would go to bed with extreme frustration over their lack of progress, worry knotting itself tight in the pit of Red's stomach.

Two weeks passed, sluggish and hot, with Red prowling around the stuffy room. Passing the window on an afternoon equally as frustrating as the last fourteen, she spotted Asher and Royce walking into the front yard.

Royce was gesturing wildly, his pale hands fluttering and twisting like pale birds. As he swept an arm along the area of smooth dirt in front of the house, his expression was one of frightening determination and excitement. Asher nodded, said something, and then walked away about a dozen paces, tapping the ground with his foot and spreading his arms. He spoke.

Royce nodded and motioned the other man back inside. As they turned to face the house and the windows once again, Red pressing her face against the glass, his muffled and distant words reached her: "…to reach Rainhue, you know as well as I do, because when the Transistor..."

Red gritted her teeth against the pull in her chest as it surged painfully.

Sometimes at night, unable to sleep, they'd pour over the strange note of Royce's Red had found (it seemed like years ago now) and try to squeeze anything from it that might be useful. Royce had once said that the idea of the Transistor had "found him"; in this note, too, was the notion that something—"time"?—had somehow found him. Red would wrack her mind to make this fact connect with another, but every time she hit a dead end. They'd go over and over the note's words until they had accidently memorized it, but each night fall asleep as exhausted and frustrated as before.

There had to be something in that note, something they could use.

More importantly, thought Red one night as she stared at the scarlet moon and listened to His slow breathing, is the fact that Royce knows of Rainhue. Whatever that place was, he'd somehow known of its existence before coming to the Country.

As the creation of the Transistor became one strange explosion, tower of mathematical equations, or metallic screech closer to completion, the pull of the Country on His and Red's bodies grew in intensity. Red sweated constantly, and one night her body completely revolted with painful dry retches over the side of the bed.

Fever overcame Him again, this time staying for two days and nights before clearing up; during that time Red cursed at the Country, glaring at its red eye-moon, even pleading with it, trying everything she could think of to let it release him from its grip.

Well, it could have lasted for longer. We should be lucky, she thought as He'd sat up groggily on the morning of the third day, rubbing his chest and saying he felt at least a little better.

At that moment, a blinding blue light had burst through the window, washing over the room. Red rushed to the window just as the light faded to see Grant and Royce edging out of sight and back into the house, carrying something large and silver between them.

If she hazarded a guess, she would've said they'd been testing it. Not good.

She squinted at the barren front yard as splotchy afterimages danced in front of her eyes. Thin, arching branches of lightning skittered and crawled over the ground before fading a few moments later.

"Please," she told the Country quietly. "We're running out of…" She could not make herself finish.

The next day the dismal silence was broken as their door rattled and then burst open. Asher Kendrell stood there.

Red was sitting on the bed and He leapt up at the sight of him.

"What—" He began, but Asher snatched the small hanging mirror from the wall, turning it over in his hands.

"This'll do," he muttered, and before they could do anything, he swung the door closed with a snap and locked it.

Asher did not return, even when He pounded furiously on the door. Turning to Red, his face was frantic.

"That mirror. It's for the eye." His shaking hand curled into a fist.

Red tried to slow her pounding heart, but it just seemed to go faster.

She looked out the window at the violent red sun, at the eye of the Country. So far, it had refused to help them. She let out a shaky breath.

"This one is like the master, a king. Or a mother, maybe. No wonder it's giving them whatever they want."

"The Camerata took good care of the Transistor they had. Well, until Grant 'borrowed' it," he said bitterly, and then burst out, "I was inside the damn thing longer than anyone! That's got to count for something, right?"

Red ran her fingers through her hair, gritting her teeth. She wracked her mind, but it felt like a rung-out dishrag. "What else can we do?"

He snarled and kicked the bed so savagely it skittered from its position. "At this rate, this Transistor will be done by tomorrow. Maybe even tonight."

"And then what?" Red cried suddenly. "Royce and the others will be back there, free to do who knows what, and you'll be—you'll be—"

Her voice broke; the strength left her legs and she fell to the floor. Weeks worth of rage, worry and sickening fear flooded through her. They had tried everything.

And if the largest Transistor in existence wasn't going to help them after all this…

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't see you like that. Not again."

When he next spoke, his voice was hard with equal anger and determination.

"I'll try my best to put up a damn good fight, then."

They went to bed preparing for the worst, and it came the next morning.

Red awoke to a tremendous crash. She leapt out of bed as Grant Kendrell was thrown into the dresser.

"Red, look out—"

She ducked as Asher's arm came from seemingly nowhere, trying to grab her around the throat; dashing to the foot of the bed where He stood with bloody knuckles, she yanked the door handle.

The door swung open as Grant stumbled, cursing, to his feet. Asher vaulted over the bed just as He and Red ran into the hall, his hands closing on empty air.

"Quick," He panted as they thundered down the stairs, Red looking over her shoulder, "we gotta—"

A hand found Red's hair and pulled hard, yanking her back. He whirled around as Red, straining, kicked Asher in the knee, elbowed him in the gut for good measure, and then ran through the living room.

Blood was roaring in her ears. So this was what it was like to fight without a Transistor, she thought vaguely. It's so fast. Everything's fast, all the time.

Grant crashed down the stairs, yelling.

"Royce!" he bellowed, bursting from the doorway.

Royce Bracket rose from the sofa, clean and perfect for the day's occasion, and dodged His first furious swipe, and then a second, smooth like machinery. Red barely had time to register surprise.

Grant hauled a seething Asher to his feet. "You all right?"

"Of course not! That damn Red—"

They both lunged at her; she leapt hastily backwards as He landed a blow on Royce that sent him flying—flying right into her; they thudded to the floor.

Before Red could squirm out from under Royce, cold metal was pressed against her heaving chest.

Royce dragged her upright, one hand compressing her arm with an iron grip, the other holding a freezing blade to her throat.

He looked from Red to Him, eyes shining with malice and a cold smile flitting across his face.

"We're going to the front yard. And you—try anything funny and we'll put little Miss Red inside the Transistor instead."

At these words, the fight went out of Him and all color drained from his face. Grant and Asher seized him roughly. Gaze glued to the blade at Red's throat, He said nothing as they went through the kitchen and out into the bright front yard.

She felt numb. It was really happening.

Their hands on the back of His neck, Grant and Asher pushed him fifteen feet away and faced him forwards, but not before tying his hands behind his back and standing on either side of him.

Royce, gripping Red painfully hard, marched her to the other end of the yard. Blood began dripping sluggishly down her throat.

Royce nodded at Grant. "Go get it."

Grant jogged back into the house, but not before Red glimpsed the eager look on his face.

Asher tightened his grip on the back of His neck, but unnecessarily. Eyes wide with shock and horror, face deathly white, he didn't look as if he had the will or strength to move anymore.

And then Grant was back, holding the new Transistor, the object that had haunted Red's nightmares, as if it were a beloved treasure; Royce placed his clammy hands upon Red's, guiding them and wrapping them firmly around the handle. The handle of a weapon she'd hoped never to see or touch again. Cold and smooth, it made her want to vomit.

One hand twitched, as if to pull away. Royce clamped down upon it and breathed in her ear, "Now, Red, none of that. Come on now."

How could they fail to hear the slamming of her heart?

Fifteen feet away, He stood rigid and numb, with the Kendrells on either side.

"Now," Royce breathed, with sickening excitement, "use it. Rip apart this Country and take me back."

Her hands shook uncontrollably. Royce pressed the knife into her back.

Red hefted the Transistor, bringing it above her head. Dim, nightmarish memories of Cloudbank resurfaced in her mind, memories of when she'd used this very move.

Asher had a knife blade against His throat now.

There had to be something she could do, some way to escape this, but what? They had tried everything.

Royce's breath was on the back of her neck.

Maybe she could—she could—

Red blinked. That was it, the only way.

It had to work.

Readjusting her grip, she slammed the sword into the dirt, screwing up her eyes as a bright blue, lightning-like charge shot from its center with frightening speed. It rushed towards Him, so bright it seemed to draw all other colors into itself, crackling and spitting.

Red started to run.

This was more like it. Through her terror, familiarity enveloped her as time appeared to slow. Royce grasped for her as she ran alongside the blazing Function, the essence of His soul. She looked ahead: to their credit, Grant and Asher remained in their positions until the very last second before flinging themselves aside.

The razor-sharp arrowhead of the Function whizzed past His head by inches, blowing back hair, forcing him to shut his eyes, burning against his face. But it didn't harm him the way Royce had planned or wanted. It landed exactly where Red had intended: right behind him.

She'd always been good at aiming.

A ragged, pitch-black doorway burst into existence, torn open by the Function. The rest of the Function faded into the door's depths as Red pushed Him through and then leapt in herself. They began to fall as if through water.

"Red, what—?!"

She grabbed his arm before he fell too far. "Just—"

She shrieked, pain erupting at the back of her head. Eyes watering, she twisted around enough to see Royce reaching through and gripping her by the hair.

"No, Red! You're not going," he shouted, face twisted as Grant and Asher appeared at his side.

The doorway began shrinking.

"No!"

The void gaped beneath them as several hairs parted with Red's skull.

The doorway trembled and shrunk drastically. Grant grabbed Red around the neck and started hauling her up, as her arm holding onto Him screamed in protest.

"Red—" he cried.

Then the door widened a bit—shuddered and shrunk again for a second—and then tore open; light flooding in and penetrating the void, the faces of the Camerata grinning down as they began dragging them upwards.

And then Grant gave a cry, releasing Red as if he'd been burnt. Royce relinquished his grip, stumbling back, and somewhere behind them metal and glass exploded.

"The Transistor," shouted Asher, spinning around. "It—but why—?"

The doorway snapped shut, wrapping them in complete darkness. He and Red tumbled into nothingness with Royce's enraged yells ringing in their ears.


	4. Chapter 4

The smells came first: the hunkered-down, dampened atmosphere just after a rain, the distant fresh spike of far-off greenery, and the tinny, gritty scent of city metal. Thin slices of freshness came as new raindrops began to fall, pitter-pattering against her bare arms and knees. Then came a quiet ocean of murmuring voices, swirling around her. The voices were near, far, words ranging distinct to unclear. Even as she recognized clearly-spoken fragments of human speech, her mind could not make sense of them and they fell from her awareness as soon as they had entered it. Something sighed, hugely, and it went on for a time. This she could pinpoint, having been subject to the noise every day in the Country: wind rushing through wheat. Although this one sounded different, ever so slightly, thicker and heavier—wind rushing through leaves, then? Her stomach gave a sudden flutter, and then clenched. How long had it been since she had heard that?

Her entire body ached. A rigid, cold surface was pressing against her back, supporting her. Even though her eyes were closed, her center of gravity became unbalanced as a large wave of dizziness overtook her. Her stomach clenched again, painfully this time, the merest hints of nausea tickling the back of her throat.

Her right arm was splayed across her lap, while her left touched the ground. For a moment, she was vaguely puzzled at the cool, smooth surface. It was unnaturally smooth. But then, something clicked together at the very back of her mind—a dim, exhausted, barely-conscious recognition from her memory—and a tsunami of electrifying homesickness seized her entire body. She tensed immediately, more awake and aware in that blinding second of realization than she had been in years.

Her hand touched city pavement. Like Cloudbank. Like home.

Red's eyes flew open.

A tumultuous gray sky loomed above her, thick and fat and heavy, each cloud obese with rain. Her eyes feasted upon blue-silver skyscrapers, some gracefully twisted, and others wearing glimmering coats of changing color. One of them outright awed her, then and there, being a magnificent close-knit shining aqua spiral, while its neighbor was splayed, wide and passionately, against the sky, a peacock's tail transferred into architecture, glowing gold, rich green, and alluring blue. There was one that looked like a calligraphic _N_ , simple yet mighty in its swoops and curves. Yet another appeared to shift and move the longer she gazed at it, flowering plants and trees gushing forth, covering and yet contrasting the building's perfect pearl skin. To her right a dizzying triangle rocketed upwards; it would have pierced the broiling clouds had its edged not been curiously softened. The skyscraper pulsed as vibrant strands of soft violet, eccentric yellow, and screaming scarlet chased each other in a hypnotic, never-ending loop. What must that look like from inside? she wondered, dazed. And then there was a looming silver square building, with easy, elegant strokes of ebony crosshatching, stoic yet pleased in its existence. Even more buildings raced gleefully into the distance.

And then there were the people. It was a good old city crowd, a massive swarming current of busy citizens. The rush of their voices was music to her ears, surrounding her and comforting her in a subconscious way, flooding and filling in the gaps the Country's terrible silence had left behind.

Red breathed out.

A hand grasped her's—it was His hand. He sat on the other side of the pillar, and they drew closer to each other, gazing at the sprawling city.

"We made it," he finally whispered. "Well, wherever here is…"

Slowly they stood. Red remembered the note she had found in the farmhouse in the Country, the one with Royce's handwriting. It had had the name of a town, or a city. Could this be it? Rainhue? She almost could not believe it was true—could they have finally escaped the Country? Were they truly away from Royce and his despicable plans?

Red shivered, both out of nervousness and the chilly weather. She rubbed her arms. Then, exchanging a glance, she set off into the surging crowds with Him at her side. The bustle of movement and the murmuring sea of chatter from businesspeople and civilians was incredibly therapeutic. Before Red knew it her body had relaxed, and her hand no longer held His in a tense, worried way. Her heart felt open—even lighter, she dared to think—and yet she tried not to become too hopeful and excited too quickly. The back of her neck kept prickling as if she were being watched, and every time she so much as glimpsed any tall man with dark, slightly curly hair, she would end up wincing violently, her heart beating faster once again.

After thirty minutes of blissful free-flow they came across an open-air food court. The tantalizing scents of fried food, bubbling drinks, and fresh fruit, and the clink of water glasses, made her entire body feel lighter. She saw that He, too, was smiling, tentatively. They were unable to look away from the food people bought, and carried to tables to eat. There were dishes—more than a dozen—they had never even seen before.

Red's stomach growled.

Then He hung his head. "No money."

"Darn," Red said quietly. Now she felt nothing but a leaden disappointment. They forced themselves to walk away from the food court.

Something was gnawing away at Red's thoughts. Now that they were here—wherever this city, Rainhue or not, was located—where were they going to stay? How on earth were they going to support themselves?

"Hey," he said, nudging her. Red looked up, and—to her disbelief—almost felt like actually laughing (something she had not done in what felt like years).

Before them was the gray pillar, and a bit of stylish black fence coming out of it on the left. They had walked in a big circle. He leaned against the pillar, arms folded, smirking. "Ridiculous."

She gave a half-nod, half-shrug and leaned against it, too; Him on the right side and herself leaning against the front. She almost imagined she could still smell the food-court from here. Where could they go now? This place was even larger than Cloudbank and that was saying something.

The next thought was one Red formed carefully, like picking up glass bared-handed. As she did so, something subconscious inside of her shifted to the front, a tiny shard of thought from the old days, which merged to give the current thought a little backbone that even Red was afraid of. So the thought she crafted was this: What next step did they need to take—to survive? Yes, there was no Process now, but nevertheless— _survival._ That fierce need, originally born out of necessity, would never leave her.

Red's fingers brushed something cold and smooth. She recognized it in under a second, leaping away, heart rocketing into her throat, pulse quickening. She doubled over while trying her hardest not to scream.

Turning to face the third side of the pillar was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

Blue and serene, the massive thick slab that was the Transistor sword leaned against it, twinkling in the sunlight.

"No!" He stared, horror-struck. "H-how did it come with us?"

Red's mouth was dry. Neither of them had noticed it the first time. With stiff legs—legs that suddenly seemed to remember all the aching miles and miles of trekking she'd done throughout Cloudbank, that seemed to remember the cold breath of a Process at their heels— Red moved in front of it, so He would not have to look at it for a single moment longer. She had not missed the look of pure, boiling hatred on his face, before the horrified disbelief.

The hatred that came from being trapped inside it.

As she stood blocking the Transistor from His view, her entire body erupted in goose-bumps. Then the back of Red's leg brushed against its cold metal.

The fair hair along her arms and the back of her neck stood on end. Her stomach twisted, her heart raced, and for one second—which lasted an eternity to Red—her vision was blanketed, replaced, with one of Cloudbank: dark metal, shifting waist-high white walls, the absolute crushing silence, staleness in her nose and mouth, with the Process striding confidently out of the shadows. There was no one to hear her, nothing to say even if she could, and she was alone, she would always be alone—there was no one—

Red threw up.

He was at her side in an instant. Crouching down next to her, he lifted strands of hair away from her mouth and rubbed her back, not saying a word— and yet his dark, anxious gaze spoke volumes. He was warm, his hand on her back slow and heavy: all of the sudden, his physical presence made her want to cry. She wasn't alone—and He was not, either.

"Come on, Red. It'll be okay. We'll figure something out."

She squeezed her eyes shut as sharp tears formed in the corners. Her heart would not slow down, the stupid thing. He helped her to her feet, and for a moment she leaned against Him, listening to his heartbeat while wiping a hand across her damp eyes. Red took a deep and slightly shaky breath. "Thanks."

They set off once more, and went south this time, directly away from the gray pillar. Their journey was very slow going—because, unbeknownst to either Him, or even Red herself, she had hefted the Transistor by pure, ingrained habit and was now dragging it along in a tight, two-handed grip. The cold metal of the handle warmed instantly to her touch, and her ears were used to hearing the grating as it was pulled along behind her; not a single one of her five senses noticed that she was bringing it—the one-and-only Transistor, the electronic broadsword of nightmares—along with them.

That is until forty minutes later, as they were swarmed by a crowd of uniformed men and women saying they were all from the Rainhue Museum of Contemporary Art. The sword was yanked from Red's grip and held up like a prize (at which He quickly averted his eyes, with an involuntary sharp intake of breath) and Red looked around at the crowd, utterly bewildered, and then gazed at her hands as if she could not believe what they had just done.

"My-my-my, what is this marvelous…" clucked one of the men, then faltered, "…thing?"

Come on, didn't they notice the handle? Red chewed her cheek, fidgeting. They were surrounded. Perhaps it would be best to stay silent for now. But every instinct in her—especially the newly-raised ones, fresh from the terrors of Cloudbank—were telling her to run.

"Sir, sir, a moment—are you the artist?" They pressed in on Him, who held up his hands and began stammering. He and Red were back to back now.

"Were you influenced by Cubism? Or perhaps the ancient-but-classic Dadaist movement?" asked a woman with a bobbed haircut, one of her eyebrows raised. She chewed the tip of a pen. "Although, it's a very dull-looking piece, I must admit. Hmmm, let me see—all of these thick lines, ending so suddenly—were you, or are you, partial to depression?"

"What? N-no, I—"

"Amorilla, really!" said the first speaker, shocked, whipping off his glasses to properly glare at her. His head was remarkably bald. "Don't be insulting. He must be an out-of-town artist—" His dark eyes began to sparkle. "Ooo, a foreigner, even? My word—how incredible that would be—no, this piece, I gather, looks to be a representation of reflecting on Constructivism and Vorticism! How could it be anything else? Notice the sharpness of the lines, its overall _boldness_ —the hard-edged imagery—it was obviously inspired by grand landscapes—"

He was becoming far too enthusiastic for Red's liking. How could they find a way out of this? Her throat seemed to have stopped working.

"You idiots, you have it all wrong," snapped a third speaker, an uptight rod of a woman with vivid pink hair. She reached up as if to touch the Transistor—Red tensed—but withdrew her hand at the last moment, apparently to overcome with awe to ruin it by introducing physical touch. "This….whatever-it-is was undeniably created in order to become the shining pinnacle, the be-all-and-end-all, of Suprematism..." She actually gave a little moan of longing, beaming with awe. _Jensen Bay, Head Curator,_ stated her glossy nametag. "An art movement now so hidden in the past that even its core ideal remains under debate—by those who still care," she shot at the others, and the entire crowd wavered with suppressed embarrassment. And then they were all shouting over each other, desperate to make their individual opinions heard, even elbowing their neighbors to get closer to the sword as if proximity would cement their theory.

Red's eyes narrowed. "Stop it already," she cried loudly. To her surprise everyone in the Museum crowd fell silent, and the Transistor was reverently lowered. Her head pounded fit to burst—she couldn't tell them the truth, but on the other hand, one had to give information to receive information, she admitted. It would have to be streamlined, then—their entire story. And that was just wrong, she thought angrily.

But then Royce Bracket's snide, slippery voice spoke in her mind as if he were standing right next to her, and her stomach clenched into a hard, painful knot as she let out a quiet gasp: "Needs must."

He squeezed her hand, she returned it with trembling fingers. Red took a deep breath, trying to steady herself and wipe that monster's voice from her head.

"We—uh—are from out of town, actually. And the Tran—neither of us created the, er, the art piece you like so much."

"Nonsense," the crowd cried.

"What tripe!" exclaimed the bald man, whipping off his glasses yet again to showcase his shocked expression more clearly. His voice practically shook with reverence. "Neither of you, its creator? I refuse to hear it. The tender love with which you carried it just moments ago was absolutely unmistakable!"

It was as if he had slapped her. " _LOVE_?" Red shouted, hands curling into fists, breathing heavily through her nose. She couldn't believe he had just said that. "Are you—are you _out of your mind_?" That thing ruined both of our lives, she wanted to scream. Even our deaths!

Before anyone from the Rainhue Museum of Contemporary Art could say anything, He cracked his knuckles so loudly and effectively that they all jumped. The Cubist lady gave a squeal of fright, jumping back and stepping on the bald man's foot.

There was total silence.

"We are just trying to find a place to stay," He growled.

The Head Curator Jensen Bay clutched her clipboard to her chest as if that would help protect her from His stormy glower. Peering up at him from behind it, she squeaked meekly, "I-f that's what you're looking for, I-I know a realtor who might be able to help, there's an apartment building of her's not far from…"

Although it had been easy enough to admit to each other, Red felt a small squirm of embarrassment, and He hesitated before turning out his pockets. "Can't help you there."

"What kind of foreign tourists are so stupid as to travel without money?" someone whispered to the Cubist lady, who smiled in superiority, shrugged, and then started a piece of bubble gum.

Red's fingers dug into her palm. She couldn't take it anymore. "We don't want or need your realtors," she snapped, and at long last started moving forward to push her way out of the Museum swarm, all of which were now looking very disappointed. He hastened to follow suit. "You've held us up long enough. Good _bye._ "

They struggled through the thick crowd, all of whom were too scared to do anything and yet looked as if the best treat in the world was slipping from their grasp. They burst out, finally, and managed to get halfway down the street when the bald man shouted, in a strangled voice, "Wait!"

He jogged after them, and the crowd buzzed quickly along to follow. The Transistor bobbed through their ranks, and the bald man took it, knees buckling, almost collapsing to the ground under its immense weight.

"You…forgot….this," he grunted, face purpling and limbs trembling.

"We don't want it," He snarled with such ferocity that even Red was scared for a moment. "We'll never want it again, so take it away."

"N-no, Mr. Artist, sir—Mrs. Artist—what I mean is—" Groaning and gasping, the bald man toppled to his knees, eyes bulging as the sword on his lap began crushing his legs, his hands pinned underneath. Hovering behind, the crowd peered owlishly at him. The Cubist lady smacked her mouthful of bubble gum. The bald man's face was beaded with sweat. "I'm t-the Assistant Curator of Rainhue Decorative Art, a-and—if you would allow me to display this—it would be such an honor—I w-will personally give you enough money to start out with, it's the least I could do in exchange for such a wonderful, radical piece of artwork…"

"Leroy!" exclaimed Jensen Bay, open-mouthed. "How foolish—" She stopped, looking thoughtful. "Actually, that's an idea. I'll pitch in," she said, business-like, whipping out her wallet and rifling through it. "Maybe….yes—an art studio to make further works," she muttered to herself.

Red and He exchanged glances. Could it be this easy? Was saying 'yes' all they had to do to get rid of the Transistor forever? Red's heart began to lighten in spite of herself, her recent anger and annoyance dissipating before she knew it. If these people took the Transistor, it would never have the chance to disrupt their lives again…And then excitement was coursing through her body at almost unbelievable speeds. For a moment the city's traffic and crowd-babble vanished; all Red had eyes for was the stocky, panting man kneeling before them with a pathetically hopeful expression on his face, which was reflected in the Transistor's terrible, pitiless red eye.

The muscles in her neck tensed an almost unnoticeable amount as she prepared to nod. But then her hand gave a greedy and even smaller twitch: her left hand which had hauled the Transistor towards her when they'd first set off on this attempt to leave it behind.

 _You are this close to never seeing it again,_ hissed a part of her mind. _But even when you and He went to the food court—in a giant circle, mind you—even then, you were still within its radius, its sphere of influence, shall we say…_

That was exactly the kind of term Royce would use when talking about the Camerata's prized weapon. She felt like vomiting again; a wave of panic overtook her. Had she known Royce Bracket for so long, been under such terrible pressure and stress in the Country, that he was going to continue affecting her in the real world, too? _You're over-thinking this, this isn't like you, calm down, calm down, calm down—_

 _So therefore,_ whispered the voice—and suddenly, terrifyingly, it became one hundred percent Royce's voice, twisting snakelike around her mind, tightening its grip— _what happens when you get to far away from its radius? For good? Can you handle it?_

Her left hand jerked, arm moving forward a fraction. _Just take it back from those so-called artistic morons. They don't know a thing, they're too miniscule to recognize the majesty of what's before them. That one worm is literally groveling at your feet. Take it…_

 _I won't._ She forced her hand to curl into a slow fist. The muscles cramped like they did not want to obey her. The fist began unfolding immediately.

 _Red_ , said the voice, low, dangerous, simmering, poisonous. He was standing right next to her, his vile body's heat overshadowing her own, a curl of his hair brushing the side of her face, and yet he was _inside_ of her...

And then it was as if a needle punctured the surface of her mind, she broke out into a cold sweat right then and there, clamping her eyes shut as the pain at the center of her forehead twisted, intensified. She couldn't possibly be imagining this—could she? The though came into her head, gasping and struggling for the right to exist. No, there was no way it couldn't be real, it was real—real or imagined? Oh, please let it be imagined, please—she couldn't think properly anymore—

 _Grab the Transistor, you damn slut_ , seethed his frostbite voice. It was all around her now. A cold, spider-like hand crept onto her shoulder and dug in with shocking force. _Take back my sword._

"NO! NO WAY IN HELL!" Red screamed at the top of her voice. Her eyes flew open.

The Museum people were staring at her, shocked, and so were more than a few passersby. And His big, comforting hand rested on her trembling shoulder as he peered concernedly into her face.

"Red, what—?"

"It's sp-sphere of influence…." she muttered, hardly even aware of the words. Her mind swam, breath coming in shaky gasps. And for what seemed like the only time in her entire life, she wished He would remove his hand. Royce's clawing penetration was still digging and gnawing its way into her shoulder—His touch was too…distracting. The brooding hulk needed to give her some space, damn it, couldn't he tell?

 _No,_ she thought, not even recognizing at first that her mind-space was once again her own, _that's Royce talking, ignore him, don't let him hold sway over you…don't let it happen….He's not_ _a brute, he has a name, you know…_

"You know….their offer isn't half-bad. And maybe we should get you somewhere safe—for your—no, I mean our own safety…" He was shaken. He would never say something like that normally; it was patronizing….

"Be quiet," she snapped. "You know I can handle myself, or haven't you been paying attention?"

He recoiled, plainly stung. Red was horrified. "I didn't mean that, I swear." She grasped his hand in reassurance, but the movement was too quick and they both knew it. Red paused. "I-I swear I didn't….mean it…" Brilliant, her hesitation would just shove the point home more. But that hadn't been her, it was Royce who'd—somehow—put those words in her mouth, it had to be…She gave her head a tiny shake, trying to pull herself together, **feverently** hoping her next words were sufficient. She meant them."S-sorry. I'm sorry."

He looked at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, then pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a mighty sigh, leaden with suppressed feelings. Grasping her shoulders, he drew her closer, shaggy head bowed. Their foreheads pressed together. A large bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, spreading into the dark strokes of his eyebrows. And when He glanced up, uncertain, timid, and scared, Red's face was reflected clearly within his eyes.

"I don't know what Royce has gotten us into." He spoke so quietly she could barely make out the words. The very syllables were, it seemed, stuck together, clustered and terrified of making too much noise. "This city, with its noises and smells and sights—it may seem like Cloudbank. At first. But it's not—it's not. And whatever is going on here, we _need_ a safe haven."

For some reason, His own fear calmed her in a way Red could not put into words. Her frantic, pounding heart began to slow, her anxieties to so very slowly melt away. And then, so did the gripping certainty that Royce Bracket had ever truly been inside her head to begin with. Maybe it really had been her imagination, the incredible over-simulation of this new city causing her to have intense auditory hallucinations….

"A safe haven?" She was dying to add, "Is that even possible?" but before she could a wave of exhaustion, all-consuming and weighty, rushed upon her. In His eyes, her face was ghostly pale.

"To survive. To live. And," he whispered with steel in his voice, the corner of his lip lifting in such a small movement it was hardly even noticeable, "to plan a counterattack if we need to."

Red suddenly became hyper-aware of a rustling all around them. The folks from the Rainhue Museum of Contemporary Art were, to her dim incredulity, still gathered on the street. The poor bald man still had the Transistor on his knees, so overburdened it looked like he didn't think his legs would work ever again. Yet, nevertheless, he was watching them like all the rest.

Red and He drew apart, and stood tall, facing the large group. Red eyed the several proffered wallets, each with a fair amount of cash in them. A few men and women were half-crouched around the Transistor, already eager to transport it to their oh-so-wonderful-museum.

 _A safe haven_ , she thought. _A counterattack…_

She closed her eyes again, only for a moment this time. She yearned to shut out this new world, to float in silence and darkness, with no worries at all…she wanted, needed, to sleep, preferably on the most comfortable bed money could buy…sleep, blissful forgetfulness, had, Red felt, never been this important before…But to do that, they needed….Well, somewhere safe.

The apartment building was the stoic, crosshatched silver building Red had seen upon her first viewing of Rainhue. Their rooms were on the third floor. Jensen Bay, along with the Assistant Curator Leroy (who had now developed a stooping limp), and a couple of others gave them money enough to supply the rooms with furniture, dishware and curtly, and a thickly-quilted queen-sixed bed. The purchasing and setting up took all day: by the time they were done the sky was a smooth swath of starless pitch black, Rainhue's magnificent skyscrapers vaulting up into it like a dazzling hem. Before they left, heaving the Transistor along with plenty of "Are you insane, don't drop it, do you _want_ to lose your job?" and "Which wing should we display it in?", Leroy limped up to them holding a glossy hardly-used tourist pamphlet containing the best restaurants around. Both Red and He were so exhausted they went straight to bed, not even flipping through the pamphlet to glance at the 'Best Pizzeria  & Flatbread' section. Red did feel somewhat guilty about this—flatbread was had been their unofficial traditional food of choice for years now—but she felt, this time, considering the circumstances, it was okay if they skipped out on it. It was almost three in the morning.

However, they did hover at the windows and watch as the Transistor was carried away down the dark street, glowing softly like a blue star. They followed it until it eventually shrank out of sight, then stayed even longer, watching silently, as if they could trace its progress through city streets they did not know.


End file.
